Just the Girl
by Arbitrary Escape
Summary: And I can't help myself; I don't want anyone else.


**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own _やはり俺の青春ラブコメはまちがっている_, commonly referred to as _Oregairu_ \- characters are property of Watari Wataru and ponkan8.

* * *

I'm not sure what it means to be in love but I know that it's cold and it's cruel. Why? Because Love is a force of nature and is inhuman, more so than it is inhumane. Emotions defy logic; emotions break minds. Emotions turn tables and cast spells on people. That sweet fire that people romanticize and Romanticize as a god is, perhaps, close to such; it bends whims and crushes skulls, pounds hearts and brushes skin with chills from flames too hot to keep.

It's something that I've become far too acquainted with, even though I know I shouldn't have been. It's not wise to think about such things when they won't hold much value later on; but then again, I've been told that experience is the teacher of all things so I guess maybe it's not all unwarranted. Maybe hormones have some purpose after all.

Though I suppose that, like the universe, regardless of my perspective, facts are facts; truth is truth, though only when convenient. And unfortunately, truth loves to be convenient. Just not for me. As such, I find myself settled in a conundrum: juxtaposed at the edge of a fork in a long, winding road, where the corridor splits into a thorny walk and one that seems dully paved but clean to trek.

Some have called such a setting an ultimatum. I just call it reality.

So as it stands, I find my legs shaking as I stand in front of a door. A nice one, really. It was missing some decoration or decorative words. What came to the forefront of my thoughts was: 'On a field, sable, the letter A, gules.'

What came to the forefront of my lips was, "Hello?"

As expected, there is no response. The silence is staunchly sitting there, picking at its food. I draw my breath and knock and repeat my question.

It is only after a large peace that an answer pierces through the wood.

"Go away." The voice is soft and it's haunted, but it's there and she's alive and here; that's all the validation that my breath needs before it crawls out of my stomach and through my lungs. It makes its way down my tongue and chokes on my teeth and lips.

"I know you don't want to see anyone right now, but," I pause, my voice cracking as I think about her laugh, her smile, her snide grins and subtle winks; the dance she and I do, where one of us spits insults and we trade our gazes for things unspoken. "But I think I can't leave you alone right now."

"Why?" Something in her voice makes me shake because while she's not keen on speaking to me most of the time and more keen on speaking at me, there's never been a case in which she's shied away. And the idea, the very image, my very reality, is breaking. Because that's never who she has been and it's not someone she should be. Is. Will be.

"Because I'm not an idiot half the time and the two of us know what's got you choked up more than the cracks in my voice."

There is a breath on the other side of the wood that catches and it has a hitch and lull that draws me in; I see her eyes close without her in front of me. I think to myself how this door only had to disappear and she could be before me. But no. She's closed; this brittle closeness is the furthest we been. I wonder if she wants to acknowledge that she knows; but knowledge is power and ignorance is bliss, so she wants to stay hidden, remiss.

My heart barely takes that realization as another silence stretches; my watch tells me it's been only three minutes, but my heart thinks it's been ten years. Teenage angst truly is the only will that bends attention and time. I laugh, hollowly rich. "Please."

The begging isn't new to me, and I know from the quiet that her thoughts are moving quicker than her hands. She's already weighed the pros and cons; did she know I was going to be here?

Finally, there is a click and something inside me jumps. Chaos leaps from my internal organs as hope springs from Pandora's box; I pray the same curse that Satan whispers to the world and hope that evil and good lose meaning as I stare upon a face run red with tears and hiccups.

"Hey." My lips twitch in a pale imitation of their usual half-grin, my voice a croak as it gathers what little courage that Kamiya Taichi once inspired in my childlike foolhardiness. My nose takes in how she smells like flowers and maple, but her house is all mahogany and sakura. The clash almost makes me stumble. It gives me a legitimate reason to pretend I need one in the first place to pull her in.

Her voice struggles to free itself. Syllables devolve and words become sounds that have no place in the Japanese alphabets or any other as she leans her head on one shoulder, embracing me as I hold her steady. "Don't get any ideas."

"I know."

Her limbs still as she hears the defeat in my voice; my trembling hasn't stopped, and I think it's the first time she's realized that even though I'm propping her up, she's keeping me vertical, too. Because I hadn't realized how resigned I sounded until my words rang through my eardrums. I hug her tighter because I know that she, still in her brokenness, would find a way to feel sorry.

Pity is a party that I can't attend or occupy, even if she is the giver. My world is colored and a lack of that would shatter me. So I steel my stomach until it is cool like iron, and I stare at her face and we just let words stop speaking for us as we make our way through her place and onto the floor of her room.

There are words that the two of us can say, but neither of us really know why we should say them - her touch is revealing, which, I cannot help but find cute - or why they even need to exist for us to sit and let the tension bleed. Her fingers are laced between mine and I find a Pretty Cure tune humming itself across the room as we stew our little world into a mixture.

We're too heterogeneous to cause a chemical bond, but hey, I'm taking what I can get.

"Do you regret what you did?"

My words actually stop her thumb in its tracks, the back of my palm colder in an instant. It is some time as she leans back against her bed, and she heaves out a "No."

The smile snakes its way onto my lips before I blink and take in the fact that I'm actually proud of her. And also the fact that I'm not sure what my words are supposed to mean. Why should I be proud? I'm not her parents. I'm not her guardian angel. "That's good, you know? Bitterness isn't something to hold onto forever; hurt is cyclical in nature, and keeping it locked in is letting some roots fester where they shouldn't. You're smarter than you look."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I don't say anything as I slip an arm around her waist and pull her into a one-armed hug-squeeze. Instead, I opt to ask her about the mundane things because mundane means normal and normal means safe. "Are your parents still in France?"

And normal isn't me.

"...Yeah." Her voice is much less a grumble and more of a pained acceptance. She's giving me a once-over, double checking that I'm not some sort of impostor. It makes me laugh internally because if I laugh out loud, right now, I'm not sure I could convince her that I hadn't ingested any Joker Venom.

There is something odd in her eyes and I can tell that, for just a second, she's distracted from her sorrows and in their place is a fierce worry that settles itself like a Roman emperor. But Rome was not built in a day, and though not lost in such a fashion either, history murks itself as people tell the tale that it crumbled like a cookie - the look in her eyes changes back to its disturbed state, and I know that I'll have to try a different approach.

After all, she's not normal, either.

Most girls her age might be happy to get away, to have people they don't want to see all the time be gone and far from sight. But most girls her age have parents. Live with them, rather. The girl next to me meets hers on the weekends when it's comfortable and her mom isn't far off controlling everything that goes on behind the curtains and her father's position doesn't mandate his strict attendance.

I suppose that even she would want to see her parents every now and then.

Maybe that's why she always clings onto my cuffs and gives me that sly look that begs me to dig deeper. I'm not her angel, but I guess I was always in her vision. Even if not in a way that aligns with what I envision.

I blink again and tell her, "Good, because you can't be alone tonight. Don't give me that disgusted face; you'll get wrinkles. I'll just tell Komachi I need to be somewhere tonight. And don't worry about dinner - I may not look it, but I've long since set on the road toward achieving my goal of becoming a house husband."

I refuse to let her pay for the groceries. My hand pushes down on the bills inside her palm as I tell her to wait; the local grocer should have everything I need. She hates taking my refusal, but I tell her it's nothing to worry about because I'm the one who's intruding. It's not about me being a guest, and she knows, but it's an excuse she can push to make me stop.

So I don't. Instead, I tell her that it's not a big deal, remind her for what must be the third time, and make my way outside with a quick promise that I would be right back. The hands on my watch read that my trip takes just under twenty-three minutes; quickly, I pass under the threshold of her house and make my way to a kitchen I'd only ever seen once before.

And immediately set out to work.

Time, right now, doesn't seem to age like wine, but I hear the ever-low clicking of hands moving, racing, gasping to grasp even a second longer of the past; unfortunately, as all hands know, they cannot hold onto something that no longer exists, and everything crumbles away for the future.

Dinner is an affair that should push away the sadness of the day as individuals come together and partake of a shared love, but I suppose love would have to be genuine for them to leave their limbs lax. My earlier words were confident, but honestly, the taste, I know, is short of being good; it's not bad, but it's nothing too spectacular. But the dinner I make for her is better than most of my other foods because I practice it the most. And it shows. She's surprised by my prowess.

"Why me?" The taste of her beloved katsudon makes her smile, but she's crying again as she looks at me from across the table. Her tea lays untouched as she idly picks at what's left of her rice.

"Why not you?"

"Because I can't see you like that."

"And that's exactly why I'm here."

It takes a moment for her to understand how literal my words are. How literal both our words are. And it starts to sink in, her face melting into a mask of horror as she understands that my words are carefully taken because the one I care for is taken with an image of her own making.

Mine, however, is right in front of me.

There is a redness that haunts her cheeks, her teeth bite them on the inside, and she looks like she's about to lose all semblance of control. A rarity. But instead of an explosion, there is a fizzling, a sizzling of dying embers that smoke their way into the sky. Her honesty bears a burden of frustration, but she's not frustrated with me, nor is she really directing it at me. Instead, I sense a paramount confusion that struggles to fit me into her equation.

She takes some time to look into my eyes, and the window-pain is evident, reflected right back at her. Her voice creaks as it swallows more than speaks her next words. "There's a part of me, right now, that wishes that I could love you instead."

"Me too." There are a number of things I can do and could have done; but among them all, I choose to smile at her.

Let's review this: option one, she decides to have nothing to do with me anymore - cool, I guess I'm out of her life and all my emotional problems are still just mine. Option two; she could use me for rebound and see where that goes, but there hasn't been a question popped because really, now's not the time. Option three: maybe, just maybe, she could become closer to me as an individual and I could become closer to her and we both just settle for being disillusioned with one another. Options four through infinity wander my head, but I pick the cruelest option to pursue because I decide that of all things, she needs a rock, even if that rock has a bunch of cracks and the foundation it has is a bunch of sod that's slowly churning away into a landslide.

Neither of us miss the depth of my smile, but I start to lose feeling as to why I'm still smiling. Only the faintest reminders that I'm doing this for her keep the frail muscles in tact, while hers seem to clench with tension and her face splotches a brilliant red that spells out a building anger.

And neither of us miss the words I am so desperately not saying out loud but putting into every action I take. She doesn't dismiss it, but she refuses to give them air. It's a decision I won't push, though there is no fibre of my soul that doesn't question it. Every ounce of what I amount to at the moment is being put on the table.

It's not enough.

Dinner is finished with much less talking than before, and I find that instead of being okay with it, I'm really not, but I pretend to be because this house needs at least one person to look like they've got everything under control. Especially considering my legs brought me here.

Deep breaths, I remind myself. Deep breaths. We find ourselves situated on top of her couch, playing stupid romcoms long into the night. Half past eleven, she falls asleep, and I push myself to keep watching whatever she threw on just before she fell asleep.

The story hurts. Not because it's poorly written or sappy, or because it's too gritty and too real, or because I can relate to it. Because I can't. It hurts because it's something I wish was true for myself. By the end of it, I find my lips whispering along to a song that won't leave the premises: "Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time…"

Slowly, the world seems to fall and I find my own lids shutter. A semblance of blackness washes over my eyes before I hear her murmur, and I catch one last glimpse of her peaceful face. Even now, she cries his name and the wound in my chest hurts again. There is a stabbing there I thought long forgotten and cured, but the dried tracks of tears I see make me wonder if Eros understood the power and sway he held back when he did not birth other beings. Then again, he encouraged Gaia and Ouranos to create and procreate; I guess love truly is the most fearsome thing in the world, considering it caused it.

She's still asleep when the earliest signs of the sun breaks, and I find myself surprised that I'm not. Mornings have never been my thing, but considering I am already awake, I make myself useful and get down to the kitchen to make some breakfast. Eggs, rice, and miso soup lift their scents over and a thumping of steps lets me know she's aware of food.

"Good morning." Her greeting is stiff and empty, and I nod, knowing she's barely watching me out of the corner of her eyes. She hasn't fixed her hair, there's no makeup, and there's no school uniform, which is perfect because school would eat her alive right now. Snakes in the grass gleam with venom and fang, particularly when their prey is in the open.

"What do you want to do today?"

"Can you go home?"

I pause, and my spoon falls back to my plate. She's still not meeting my gaze, but she's looking in my direction, which is a good thing, right? "No."

"I'm grateful you were here last night and that you've been watching over me, but don't you think it's too much right now? You've done more than enough and honestly, it's not right for you to be over."

My laugh was as hollow as her eyes. "Yeah. Sure. Okay. Because we can't be friends, right? Because we aren't?"

At that, she does look at me. At that, she does sit straighter and make her face, her intent, clear.

"Yes." I don't believe it for a second because her voice can't stop the quivering, but I believe it for minutes because there is no shaking behind her strength.

"Fine. I'll leave in a bit. But promise me that you won't do anything stupid, okay? We both know you're not dumb, but you don't have to be dumb to make dumb decisions." The sigh escapes me before I can hold it in; but I probably just don't want to bother anymore. There's no pretext holding us up and I can see that she's recovering. My presence is extra now.

The only thing I ask for before I leave is one last hug so that I can whisper into her ears and hold her one more time. She and I both know that the platitude isn't something I've earned or deserved. And I know I'm a hypocrite because I hate pity but I also can't resist her; her touch, her look, her laugh, her smile, or the warmth of her embrace.

Humans are truly disgusting creatures.

There isn't even a thanks whispered into my ear, but I've just learned that I had forgotten I already resigned myself to this end. Her face is something I memorize as I'm mesmerized, and by the time I really am sure that there's nothing left for me, I'm on a train, eyes trained on my phone as I read the overwhelming amount of texts in my inbox from my beloved little sister.

I wonder what Komachi's going to say when she sees me. Hopefully she'll give her big brother a break, if only for today. She knows me better than I know myself, but I wonder if she understands what it means to me to live a life full of peace that breaks into pieces, without any notable _requiescat in pace_.

The words from a song I'd heard long before come to my lips as I sing a lost cause in the sea of voices, a quiet soliloquy to an uphill beat, where the battle leaves me longing to see if the grass is truly greener on the other side.

"Cuz she's bittersweet;

she knocks me off of my feet.

And I can't help myself;

I don't want anyone else."


End file.
